


Not the Christmas Planned

by mgsmurf



Series: Military Modern AU Stories [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Christmas, F/M, near future AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21785851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mgsmurf/pseuds/mgsmurf
Summary: The old school Bolton's forces used as a bunker was a far cry from the Lannister estate decorated in red and gold from his childhood.  Yet, despite still being captive and his injury, Jaime finds himself oddly at ease for at least having Tarth at his side this Christmas eve.Retelling, slightly, of the JB Bolton scene.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Military Modern AU Stories [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1500257
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33
Collections: JB Online 2019 Advent Calendar Collection





	Not the Christmas Planned

**Author's Note:**

> In the same universe of my other JB military AU stories.

The outside chill air frosted the windows. Fog drifted down from the mountains. Inside, the light dimmed as darkness fell. Strings of lights hung from the crumbling tile ceiling. They’d seen better days, like everything here. One set of bulbs blinked while others did not, broken glass exposed a few bright filaments. A spindly artificial tree leaned in the corner, its plastic branches and needles unevenly arranged, hung with aged and broken ornaments.

It was a far cry from the Christmases Jaime had spent at the Lannister estate as a child. Father had never carried much about the holiday and thus left decorating to Aunt Gemma, who had lived in the annex at the estate with her lanky, beak-nosed husband and brood of similarly afflicted children. Aunt Gemma had made sure every bulb was lit, every tree properly fluffed and equally decorated, all trimmed in Lannister red and gold. 

Major Tarth gingerly sat beside him and handed him a beer, cold and cheap. Jaime knew it was likely to taste like piss. She would never be a beauty, no matter the lighting. Her thick busted lip had scabbed over, and the purple bruises upon her pale face had started to yellow. Neither helped her appearance. 

The bunker was built of cinder block painted a dingy white, with half working fluorescent ceiling lights and falling tiles. It’d clearly been a school once and still had that sterile feel of public education. Bolton’s forces mingled about the room, laughing and chatting, in mismatched ammo get-ups they looked more a group of hill billy hunters than an actual armed force. Then, again, Jaime thought, how soon ago had they been just a bunch of mountain hill billy? 

There was an elusive seclusion to the Appalachians. His Texas twang didn’t sound much different than their drawls, yet this culture was far from his own. Based on generations of grievances, poverty and self-sufficiency, making people wary of outsiders. He recognized the independence, yet felt all the rest was a flip on his own Texas. 

Tarth twisted open her beer and took a deep swallow. Jaime held the beer against his chest with his bandaged right arm and attempted to open his own, but he couldn’t get the angle or force correct with his clumsy left. Tarth wordlessly took the beer from him, efficiently twisted it open and then handed it back. 

Jaime tried not to make anything of it as he tilted the beer to his lips. It tasted as weak and watered down as he had thought, worst perhaps. Oh, for a glass of good red wine, or one of Cersei’s stiff yet festive cocktails. 

“I don’t trust Bolton,” Tarth whispered to him. They sat close enough their thighs touched, close enough no one could hear or care about the soft words they spoke in the loud room. 

Across the room Roose Bolton’s sharp, gray eyes noticed them, and narrowed. A slight, small man who held himself rigid, neatly groomed and wearing the only crisp uniform in the room. Jaime leaned a bit more into her and whispered, “You shouldn’t trust him.” 

Oh, likely Bolton and his father had already talked, possibly already worked out an exchange. Bolton was an educated man for this backwards place, a man who has schemes on how the Stark/Lannister conflict could help himself out. He was not the type to back a losing side, and young Rob Stark was losing. 

Tarth tightened her thick lips, furrowed her forehead, perhaps without the constant scowls she’d be prettier, although Jaime doubted it. 

“How’s your hand?” she gestured with her beer to his right hand buried in the sling against his chest. 

It was a dull, constant ache. He had refused the oxycodone Bolton’s medic, Qyburn, had offered him. Jaime needed his mind sharp in this place because the only person he could trust currently sat beside him. He shrugged, took a long draw on his beer bottle. “I’m likely to not lose it.” 

Resetting the bones, awake and without real meds, had been almost worse than the initial hammering of his hand, but Qyburn knew his stuff, even it it mostly involved cooking up illicit substances – and supposedly the man was also into taxidermy. He had mended up Jaime’s hand enough it would heal in some form. 

Tarth nodded, pinched her lips. “That’s good.”

Jaime sighed and took another draw on the beer. What good was a ruined hand? What good was not losing it, if he’d never be able to use it again? What good was a solider without two hands to shoot and fight. 

‘I’ll be home for Christmas’ came over the speakers they had rigged for the party, the old version by Bing Crosby, with a tinny sound and a deep voice soulfully singing out the mellow lyrics. 

Tarth frowned, a sadness in her brilliant blue eyes – hands down the best feature of her face –, “Not this year,” she whispered, perhaps just to herself. 

It brought back memories of past Christmases, the smell of spices and juniper, low, polite chattering from one of Aunt Gemma’s many holiday parties. When they were kids he used to chance Tyrion around the large kitchen until they got yelled out by the cook or a nanny. Jaime would zig and zag and let Tyrion huffing along on his shortened legs catch him, then Jaime’d turn around and lift him up high until Tyrion squealed with laughter. They’d scurry as fast as Tyrion could back up the stairs, and share warm hot chocolate with the big marshmellows Tyrion had loved. 

But it had been years since Tyrion had run anywhere, or laughed with real joy, and it was usually the mulled wine and eggnog not hot chocolate he drank these days. Aunt Gemma had long ago moved to her husband’s family at the Twin Towers and Father rarely threw big festive parties to waste his time with, besides this year he had a conflict to win and no time for cheer. 

Jaime tried to tell himself what did it matter where he was for the holiday? He had spent holidays away before. He leaned a bit closer to Tarth, his shoulder with the sling touching hers, “For what it’s worth, Merry Christmas.”

She turned to him, surprised, her face too close to his own. He remembered her soft, strong arms around him in the showers and he pushed down the blush that would color his cheeks. Her eyes twinkled as she blinked them, her mouth turned up into a partial smile, the closest he had seen to happiness. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, “and Merry Christmas to you too.” She didn’t use his name, but she also didn’t call him Kingslayer. Her face, happy and breathless, might be better than any gaudy gift he would have gotten from Cersei, or even Tryion and his drunken cheer. Jaime gave a half smile back. There were still technically prisoners, still uncertain of how they would fair with Bolton and his gang of paramilitaries, yet in this moment with broken lights, Christmas music, cheap beer and Tarth the world was okay. 

He raised his beer and motioned a toast. Tarth nodded, still giving her part smile, and toasted back, before they both downed long swallows. 

“Beer’s still bad,” he commented after. 

Tarth gave a silenced chuckle in reply. “Yes. Perhaps given the holiday they could have sprung for PBR.”

Jaime found himself laughing, full out deep laughing that hurt his arm as his chest shook. When had be last really laughed. It drew a look from Bolton and a few of his men. Tarth just gave a sly look. She was not nearly as dim as her silent, stiff manner made her out as. 

“They must’ve spent the budget on the decorations,” Jaime replied, finally. A last chuckle escaping her Tarth’s joke.

She huffed out her own chuckle. Jaime wasn’t sure when or where in their journey and trauma it had happened, but there was an ease to being with her he shared with few others, and he desired to be no where else this Christmas than here beside her. What that might mean, Jaime pushed away, too many deep emotions, too soon. Instead he watched the room and the cheer and enjoyed the company.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully most get the joke about PBR. It's rather cheap beer, meaning that if the beer in this is worse than PBR its on the horribly cheap and bad side.


End file.
